The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (18 page)

‘…And so, I set you and your children free of the allegiance you owe me, Dhrupad, son of Prishata, King of Panchala. I solemnly declare that I hold you no ill will, for your actions past or future. Indeed, I ask, as your last act of affection and gratitude to me, that you help me implement this plan Dwaipayana has set into motion – for the good of all Aryavarta. Will you do this for me?’

Dhrupad’s voice caught in his throat as he said, ‘I will do ask you ask, Grandsire. I will ally with Dharma, if you think that will help us deflect war. But neither in dream nor in waking reality will I or any of my progeny raise a hand against you in battle.’

‘Thank you, old friend,’ Bhisma declared. ‘As for battle, well, who can resist destiny? Let us see where our fates take us. But I leave now, with a content heart.’

Dhrupad bowed, and the others followed suit. Bhisma turned to go and Satrajit followed to escort the Grandsire out. They were nearly at the doorway when Bhisma turned back, the action appearing so casual that it clearly was not. ‘That man… I trust he will not be any trouble?’

It took a moment for Dhrstyadymn to understand who Bhisma was referring to, but his father caught on at once. ‘No, he won’t.’

‘And how can you be sure of this?’

Dhrupad drew in a sharp breath. There was no warmth in his eyes as he looked at Yudhamanyu and said, ‘Because he knows
his son
will pay the price.’

Bhisma was equally sharp in his response. ‘He may not care. Not when he has two more sons to spare. Or perhaps, you don’t know of his recent reunion with them…?’

‘I do. I tolerate his transgressions as long as they remain family affairs. I assure you, if he becomes a larger inconvenience, I won’t hesitate to deal with him as required. I…’

Bhisma held up a hand, cutting Dhrupad off. His eyes moved, first taking in a confused Yudhamanyu and then resting, for what felt like a long time, on a horrified Dhrstyadymn. The Grandsire left without another word.

Dhrupad slumped onto his throne with a sigh, while Yudhamanyu stormed out of the room. Dhrstyadymn hesitated, torn between confronting his father and following his nephew. He chose the latter.

‘Yudhamanyu!’ he called out, as he ran out into the corridor. ‘Yudhamanyu, wait! It’s not…’ he stopped short as Yudhamanyu turned, tears streaming down his face. ‘Yudhamanyu, I…’

‘What can you say, Uncle? What can you say that can possibly make me feel better? Yes, I’m a grown man, a tried warrior, and yet…yet…’ Yudhamanyu fell to knees on the stone floor, and then backed up to sit against the wall, his knees tucked close to his chest. It reminded Dhrstyadymn of the five-year-old boy he had once seen and lifted onto his lap to comfort.

‘How does a man carry the burden of such hatred, Uncle? My grandfather, the one I have loved and cherished as my liege-lord and master, thinks of me as just a bargaining counter, a thing to hold the man who sired me accountable. As for my… my father, does he even consider me a son? We never meant anything to him, did we – my mother and I? We were just
things
to him. My other grandfather – my mother’s father – told me, you know. Of the state my mother was in when she returned home to Dasarna. I could never think of forcing a courtesan, but what Shikandin did to his own wife… How can I forgive him?’ He buried his head and his body shook with silent sobs.

Dhrstyadymn furiously willed himself to find the words he needed to explain to Yudhamanyu that no matter what the circumstances of his birth may have been, his father did love him and always had. He wished he could show Yudhamanyu the pain that his father had endured since childhood, and tell him that though none of it condoned Shikandin’s actions it did explain them. Then he realized quite suddenly that he did not have to.

‘You can’t forgive him, Yudhamanyu,’ Dhrstyadymn said, ‘and you don’t need to. But know this: the burden of hatred you carry – your father has carried it since his childhood. He has carried it for us all. Now you know one thing about him, and you two have at least that in common.’

The words had some effect on Yudhamanyu, for he gradually stopped sobbing. ‘How can you…?’ he had said, finally looking up.

He could not finish the question as his words stuck in his throat but Dhrstyadymn understood. He said, ‘Because Shikandin may not have been much of a father to you, Yudhamanyu. But in his own way he has been mine. And I could not have asked for a better one.’

23

THERE WAS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT: THE MUSTER AT MATSYA WAS
indeed an impressive sight. Chief Virat had already ordered in all the troops spread out through the Confederacy, and their numbers were far more than the garrison at the capital could hold. They, along with the others who had come in answer to Dharma Yudhisthir’s call, had set up camps around the periphery of the city, till Upaplavya was but a small island in an ocean of soldiers. And now the mighty Southern Panchala army marched towards the city. The advance forces had met with Chief Virat’s sons, and were in the process of adding their camps to those that encircled the city, their disciplined movements appearing as though the great serpent Ananta was coiling himself up in preparation to strike.

Those who knew much, such as Govinda Shauri, held on to their scepticism, for to believe that these numbers were enough to force Syoddhan to submit was simply wishful thinking. Yet, it was a beginning, and Govinda was determined to see this through to the end.

Out loud he said, ‘I don’t want war. I honestly don’t. Why is it that no one will believe me?’ Govinda finished by setting his face into a stubborn, almost childlike expression that forced his brother, Balabadra, to smile. The occasion felt familiar in many ways: The two of them on horses, looking down from a cliff at the land below, a sense of beginnings and endings, of inexorable change in the air. Their first glimpse of Mathura and the first time they had set eyes upon the huge stone in the sea that would, one day, become Dwaraka had been the same. But there remained a difference, one that lay heavy on both their hearts. This time, there would be no riding down together to meet destiny head-on. There would be no fighting back to back, no laughing and jesting at the end of a hard day’s work. This time, Govinda would ride without his brother.

The fleeting sense of being in another time and place faded as a shrill horn sounded in a signal, and their attention returned to the scene unfolding before them. ‘It might be because,’ Balabadra said, as he stared, unseeing, at the marching men below, ‘you’ve ended up doing what you said you didn’t want to once too often. You didn’t want to be Prince of Mathura. You didn’t want to be Commander of Dwaraka. And now you say you don’t want war. What does that mean?’

‘It means,’ Govinda said, ‘we’ve lost the ability to distinguish cause from consequence. Of course I don’t want war. Just as I didn’t want to be prince or commander. Those things were incidental to what I did want. It was a matter of priorities, that’s all. I have never believed that war is an effective solution to anything, Agraja. It is, sometimes, the unfortunate consequence of fighting for what is a priority.’

‘And now? What is your priority?’

‘The same as it was when we left our village as prisoners bound in ropes. Freedom. The right to be, to live, without need for subservience as a justification to exist.’

Balabadra sighed and turned to his brother. He had, in his role as Dwaraka’s leader, refused Govinda’s request to reconsider their alliance with Syoddhan, but the decision had not been an easy one. A sense of foreboding had made him insist that he would accompany Govinda to Upaplavya, spend what could well be the last carefree days the brothers had left together, and now they had arrived. It was time. For an instant, Balabadra mirrored Govinda’s childlike sulk. ‘You and your plans. I don’t like your plans, Govinda. They are never meant to end well for you if they succeed.’

Govinda laughed. ‘Well, they’d end the worser for the rest of us if they failed.’

‘And you ask why no one will believe you when you say you don’t want war…’ Balabadra shook his head. ‘Your shoulders are broad, brother, but not broad enough for this burden. Time and again, I’ve thrown myself heart and soul behind you, no matter how foolhardy or dangerous I thought your plans. But this…this is beyond imagination, Govinda. Even a god does not have it in him to stand responsible for a decision such as that. And if, Rudra forbid, there should be war, after all, your soul will always bear those bloodstains.’

‘All the more reason I need you with me.’

Balabadra shook his head. ‘What you’ve done has left me with far too many questions to answer for myself. I need to decide what I really believe, and then I’ll be back. When that happens…’

‘Then, you must do as I have done. You must choose for yourself who you’ll side with,’ Govinda finished.

‘Meanwhile, I will pray you find the strength to do what you must. One man for an empire, Govinda. If you can prevent this war, you must.’

‘Agraja…’ Govinda began, not quite knowing what he wanted to say. Balabadra raised a hand, putting an end to the conversation. With a last, affectionate glance at his brother, he urged his horse on.

Govinda watched him leave till he was just a dot on the western horizon, a lone figure silhouetted against the setting sun. He then turned to the future, to the darkening sky over Upaplavya. Drawing his shoulders back, Govinda urged his horse down the mountainside, towards the city below.

From those who knew little of the events at hand, the muster of armies at Matsya drew nothing but awe, pure and simple.

‘By Rock and Stone, do you see that?’ Young Kshatradharman sat up as tall as he could in his saddle, as he, Uttamaujas and Shikandin drew up alongside the huge army marching into the camps set up around Upaplavya. The boy had been visibly excited since they had first seen the force from a distance, and now that they were close enough to hear and smell the huge mass of men and horses he could no longer contain himself. ‘Look!’ he began pointing out gleaming swords and snorting horses to his brother, who listened indulgently to him even as he glanced, concerned, at their father. If Shikandin felt any emotions at all at seeing the army of Southern Panchala assembled in all its glory, he did not show it. The studied equanimity, however, fell away as soon as they neared the city gates, and a golden hint of pain flickered through his green-brown eyes as his eyes fell on Yudhamanyu, who stood directing the Panchala army to the temporary barracks, receiving the unit commanders and overseeing the muster of the men as a whole.

‘Is that…?’ Uttamaujas asked.

‘Yes,’ Shikandin answered. ‘That is your brother.’

‘Where? Where?’ An excited Kshatradharman turned his attention away from the marching men.

Uttamaujas was terse. ‘There. By the gate.’

Before Shikandin could stop him, Kshatradharman began to wave, trying to catch Yudhamanyu’s attention.

‘Kshatradharman!’ Uttamaujas snapped.

‘What?’ the boy asked, oblivious. ‘He knows about us, doesn’t he? You’ve told him, haven’t you, Father?’

‘Kshatradharman, shut up and settle down right now, or I swear I’ll give you the thrashing of your life!’

‘Uttamaujas!’ Shikandin was unusually sharp; his tone made further words of recrimination unnecessary.

Uttamaujas opened his mouth to protest, but then thought the better of it. He bit the inside of his cheek to fight back tears and pretended to be unaffected, but continued to glare at Yudhamanyu, as though the latter’s presence was the reason for his father’s sudden turn of affection.

Kshatradharman had stopped waving, but the three of them were now close enough to be seen by Yudhamanyu. For a moment, Yudhamanyu was visibly shocked, but then he recovered and stared through them, as though they were not there at all. His attention ostensibly elsewhere, he turned away and then spit, sideways, right in Shikandin’s direction. Then, still without looking their way, he walked into the city. Shikandin did not bother trying to convince himself that the whole matter had been just coincidence. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Southern Panchala’s banner as it fluttered in the desert wind and reminded himself of why he was here.

Dharma Yudhisthir, the man in whose name these events were taking place, greeted the muster with the vague unease of one who knew much but not all. He watched from the low tower atop Chief Virat’s palace, as Shikandin and his two companions weaved their way past the Panchala armies and through the city’s streets, towards the stables adjoining the royal enclosure. He saw the unadulterated joy on Shikandin’s face as he greeted Govinda Shauri, the two friends embracing long as though they had feared they would never meet again. The joy turned to pride as Shikandin introduced his companions, both of whom greeted Govinda respectfully. Govinda, in turn, shared a few words of banter with the two, one of whom, Dharma realized, was just a boy. At Shikandin’s insistence, the two men left their horses to the boys’ care and proceeded into the palace.

Dharma sighed and turned his attention back to the activity around him. Though he could no longer see Govinda and Shikandin, he knew that by now they had been met by one or the other of his brothers and were being led to Virat’s assembly where the first full Council of War was to take place. He also knew that as soon as they entered, they would ask for news of what had come to pass, the most significant of which, someone, probably Dhaumya, would inform them was Shalya’s sudden turn of heart. The King of Madra, despite his avuncular affections and assigned promise had finally had little choice but to ally with Syoddhan.

Dharma had not been upset at the sudden betrayal, for he saw that it was anything but. Shalya had personally come to apologize and explain. ‘I am beholden to them, Dharma,’ he had said. ‘In the years of your exile, Syoddhan more than met his role as our overlord; he has cared for my people through bad harvests and severe snowstorms, to the point of helping maintain my armies. Indeed, as he pointed out, it was his leavened bread that they ate as we journeyed eastwards to join you. I am morally bound to him. Forgive me.’

‘But Uncle…’ Nakul had protested. ‘How did you not…’